The Dragonborn and the Blades
by shadow182angel
Summary: The latent powers of the Dragonborn's blood have been awakened, and prepared or not she must face her destiny. As she struggles to understand her own identity and place in the world of mortals, will she find her true family with the Blades, or is she simply a tool in their crusade? Rated for violence, themes, sexual references.
1. Prologue

Prologue

I knelt in the snow at the mountain's edge, the wide courtyard of High Hrothgar behind me. Arngeir was beside me, silent and thoughtful in his contemplation, his breathing long and slow. I told myself to focus and listen for the whispers of the words.

I couldn't.

"You are distracted, Dovakiin," Arngeir said suddenly. I kept my eyes forward, and he kept his closed though he continued to speak, "Do you doubt your decision?"

"I haven't decided," I corrected.

"I think we both know that is untrue…" he said sagely. It was difficult to like Arngeir, but I couldn't deny his wisdom; though he was the 'youngest' of the Grey Beards he was still many decades older than me and the only one of the Greybeards still able to speak without shaking the entire mountain beneath him. He continued:

"If it brings you comfort, inaction is often the wisest choice, if the most difficult."

"It doesn't, but thankyou," I said hollowly. He was quiet for a long time, before eventually opening his eyes to the wide land of Skyrim laid out beneath us.

"…The loss of the Blades as your allies is not an unfortunate thing," he said and I frowned sharply, despite myself.

"For a man who values inaction and meditation, you have a lot of _opinions_," I said snidely, a heavy ache around my heart when I thought about them. Benor. Jenassa.

Vorstag.

I felt Arngeir's stern look, "You are young, Dragonborn," he said, though I think he may have been reminding himself, not me, "Impertinence will erode with time, leaving greater understanding in its wake."

A heavy breath rushed from my nose. He was annoyingly right, again… I was taking out my frustrations on him.

"It's not that I've lost the support of the Blades," I said, a little more calmly, "It's that I lost _them_. I _chose_ them, and they've been taken away from me."

Arngeir was quiet for a long time; it was hard to believe he could understand, having spent most of his life sitting on top of this mountain with only three others for company, following the Way of the Voice.

"Your friendships are precious, but you must not let yourself be bound by such earthly things. They come and go, are born, live, and die."

I resisted the urge to sigh again.

"Let's just find this damned word…" I grunted, squeezing my eyes shut and trying to listen for its whispers. However, it was Arngeir's turn to sigh.

"Enough, Dovakiin," he said, and I felt a jolt of surprise when his gnarled hand fell on my shoulder. "To try and hear its location now would be an exercise in futility."

I slumped from my knees, feet tucked beside rather than under me. The frustration welled in my heart, compounded by the anger, pressure, and sheer loneliness. My throat began to feel tight and I realised with some shame I was moments from crying.

"What were their names?" Arngeir asked then, and I blinked up at him with some surprise. He wasn't looking at me, gazing instead at the sky before us.

"Huh?" I asked dumbly, and his head bowed a little.

"Your friends. What were their names?" he repeated. I was a little curious and I cannot lie, a little comforted.

"Benor, Jenassa," I swallowed painfully, "…and Vorstag."

Arngeir nodded gently. "And, why did you choose them?"

I lifted my gaze slowly to the misty mountains and cloud-covered sky, a clear canvas that my memories began to play across.

_Why did I choose them?_


	2. Benor

**Well, some of you might have noticed the previous Syrim fic I started (with the introduction at Helgen) is gone... It seemed a logical place to start it but also a looong way out from the actual story I wanted to tell. So, here we are, where the Dragonborn's journey actually begins. :)**

* * *

**Part I: The Dragons Rise**

Chapter One: Benor

I slumped forward, resting my elbows on the bridge and stared absently down at the frozen waters.

_Why here?_

Of all the shops in all the cities in all of Skyrim, Vex wanted me to heist The Thurmataugists? What's more is that I knew I was going to do it, guilty conscience or not; the array of exotic alchemical ingredients on those shelves alone had my fingers itching. Guilt had never gotten to me like this before, but the man who owned and ran that shop was a mage called Falian and not a very popular one at that. This was Skyrim; magic had never been truly welcome. Except at the College, of course…

I resisted the urge to sigh again. The _College_… it felt like such a pipe dream now. But the life of the thief seemed to reach out and pull me back in whenever I thought of attempting something more. It's not to say I _disliked_ the Thieves Guild life; I was good enough at it. Never as good as Tristane had been, but I was making a small name for myself down at the Ragged Flagon and enough gold to keep me going, swapping stories and making a few friends. Of course… with one big heist, one _really_ big job I might just be able to get enough gold to get me to the College.

I brushed a little snow from the stone and watched it make a soft _plop_ into the water, my reflection disappearing in a mess of ripples. One big heist. I'd never done it without Tristane before. He was the talented one; I would usually be the one causing the distractions while he slunk along in the shadows, picking pockets or lockboxes. But, I had to think of something.

The other fact was I didn't want to stray from the Guild; some small part of me still held out the hope my brother had made it over the border and avoided the Imperial Legions. If he had, Riften would be the first place he'd head to, I'm sure of it. The very thought made me want to head back South now and leave this depressing little village…

Morthall was a small town; large enough for a Jarl to rule over but really it wasn't any bigger than Riverwood. Some small stone houses around the docks built over the marsh, forever frosted with snow. It didn't even have any sort of fortifications, and being as far north as it was meant it wasn't exactly ideal for farming, though the marsh just north was apparently a very gamey area.

I didn't see the appeal.

I rather wished Vex had sent me to Solitude; from what I heard there'd be plenty to plunder _there_. Wealthy merchants, ripping people off, probably too wealthy to even notice they'd been robbed (unlike Falian). Of course it was a full two days travel from Riften but I think the trip would be more than worth it.

A voice from the end of the bridge caught my attention.

"You ask me, we'd be better off without that wizard in town."

"I'm surprised Falian hasn't packed up and left already, gone out and holed up in some cave like all those other mages."

I lifted my chin and looked to the edge of the bridge; a tall Nord was leaning against the stone wall, a bottle of mead hanging between his fingers and he was speaking with a local guardsman. Eventually the guard bid farewell and got back to his rounds, something that seemed to annoy the man he'd been speaking to. After a moment, the Nord man caught me staring at him; he fixed me with a dark glare.

"You lookin' at something'?" He growled lowly and it was only then I realized the filthy scowl over my features. A prideful little part of me was still burning hotly at what those _ignorant_ Nords had said.

"I _thought_ I was looking at a snow troll that taught itself to speak," I shot back and felt myself instantly regret it. He heavily put his bottle of mead down onto the stone wall and heaved himself off from the plinth, cracking his neck; the man was… _big_. I mean Nords generally were (particularly compared to a Breton girl like me) but he was almost bear-like. Or maybe I only thought that since he needed a shave. His hair was dark for a Nord, reddish like mine and he was wearing fairly simple iron armor, a broad iron war axe strapped to his back.

Perhaps antagonizing him was not the brightest idea I'd ever had. But it wouldn't be the first time I had talked myself into trouble. As my mother had often said to me, my 'mouth spoke spells I couldn't cast'.

"I'm the best warrior in Morthall," the Nord warned, his voice a low thunderous rumble, "And that's no boast."

I begged myself not to start up but of course my damned mouth was flapping before my mind had a chance to catch up.

"...Best warrior in Morthall huh?" I asked dryly, my lips pursing slightly and a sly eyebrow inching up. He scowled at me.

"You want me to prove it?" the Nord asked, taking a few slow steps over the bridge towards me, then looked me up and down with a smirk and said, voice dripping with sarcasm, "I bet a hundred gold I can take _you_, bare handed."

I barked a laugh; he was twice my size, it hardly seemed like a fair bet. Of course, I could fight well enough, daggers being my specialty. But fighting him bare handed for a lousy hundred gold-?

…_A hundred gold…_ I tried not to nibble at my lip as I thought. I take that hundred back to Vex and say it was from the Thaumaturgists lock box…

And risk getting my skull split open from this man. Still, he was in heavy armor and I was quite quick on my feet. If I managed to get a good strike into his throat, knee, temple, some sort of weak spot it might just be enough to take him down.

Oh, he was saying something to me. Probably insulted that I'd laughed at him.

"Alright," I interrupted loudly, "You're on."

He blinked at me, then lifted his chin, eyeing me up and down again. A little suspicious and I think, a little impressed that I'd agreed.

"You're serious?" he pressed and I cracked my knuckles, nodding. He shrugged as if to say it was my own funeral – which (I tried not to think) it very well could be.

"Just your own two hands, weapons and magic are out," he warned and I nodded mutely again. He had a little emphasis on _magic_, perhaps noticing my lineage or the very tiny point to my ears Bretons often had. He cracked his neck again, sinking back into a relaxed fight stance.

"Now let's see what you got."

_Lyri, this is a bad idea_, the sensible part of me said. But my blood began burning, forcing my body to ignore reason. That was often how things went with me; my calm, sensible mind saying one thing and something else in my blood, something that felt like it seeped right from my bones fighting against it, excited by danger and glory.

Trouble was, my blood often won out.

I put my fists up before my face, sinking into my knees, and he charged. The air made a loud whistle as his thick heavy arm swung at me with surprising speed and I could only just duck out of the way, darting around behind him.

"I thought we were fighting, not _dancing_," he jeered as he spun on me, reaching out with another punch I only just glanced out of the way of. Seeing the speed and weight that fist swung at me my heart jumped into my throat; I clenched my fists and finally took a swing at him myself but he blocked it, my fist thumping painfully into the bone of his forearm-

And he _laughed at me_.

My blood boiled in my veins and I let out a snarl; all I could see was red and all I heard was my own heart thumping furiously in my chest, my fists flying at him as I glanced out of the way of his hits-

A sharp crack over my cheek nearly knocked me out of my craze; I flew off my feet and thudded onto the cold, snowy ground, head spinning. But the frenzy was still pulsing in my blood and my body moved without my mind, pushing swiftly back onto my feet. Another swing flew at me and I ducked, swinging with my own motion and with a grunt I swung my fist back at him, crushing my knuckles hard into his throat.

At that we both staggered backwards, me finally reeling properly from the strike over my face, him grasping at his throat and gasping, coughing. The wild rush was draining away and I began to feel in control of myself again… the only heat now was in my cheeks, not just from where I'd been struck but from embarrassment.

I'd lost control… like some sort of feral skeever…

"Now that was a punch."

I blinked at the Nord who was straightening, a hand still rubbing at his throat but he was looking me over appreciatively. I tried to steady myself, folding my arms over my chest and lifting my chin.

"Would you say I earned that hundred gold?" I tested and he smirked and nodded, taking a few steps up and fishing in his hip satchel for a bag of coin.

"Not quite a knockout, but for a wisp like you… You're a real fighter, I like that," he said as he dropped the heavy little bag into my hand, "If you ever need my steel by your side, just ask."

I raised my eyebrows when he said that and I slipped the bag into my own hip satchel. Should be enough to keep Vex happy, at least.

"And considering you thought it was a good idea to try and punch my _armor_," he said, wiping a few spots of blood from his cuirass, "I'd say you could use it."

I turned my hands over and looked to my knuckles, the skin split and bleeding.

"I uh… got carried away," I said awkwardly and he chuckled again, hand swinging out and gripping mine tightly, his palm so wide by comparison he covered my fingers right up to my wrist.

"Benor," he said, shaking my whole arm.

"Uh, Ashwood," I greeted, admittedly a little confused, "Lyrielle Ashwood."

That's how one befriends a Nord? Punching them in the throat?

…Apparently, yes. He had chuckled a little at my introduction, then there was a moment of quiet and I could feel him still studying me.

"I haven't seen you around these parts before," Benor said then, "What brings you to Morthall?"

I gave a wry smile, my cheek aching by my eye when I did, "Picking fights and making poor decisions," I told him and he chuckled.

"You business is your business huh?" he queried then shrugged it off, "I can respect that."

The ache in my cheek began to grow a little more, radiating right through my skull and I started feeling quite dizzy. I'd have to find a moment to meditate and heal myself up; one of the few simple spells I could work. Then, a rest, and I would leave for Riften the next day.

"…Don't suppose you could tell me where a girl could get a stiff drink and a decent meal?" I asked then, twisting my sore wrists and hands. Benor folded his arms over his blood-spotted armor and nodded.

"Only one place in Morthall for that," he said, giving me a 'gentle' pat on the back and walking with me back over the bridge.

* * *

The inn was a warm relief from the biting Northern chill that had crept over the little village. Like most of the Nord Halls the center was dominated by a huge fire pit, meats roasting on spits, a bar at the head of it and a few long tables and benches lining the walls.

I'd settled myself in a corner, enjoying the shroud of the shadows and using my short moment of solitude to cast a healing spell over myself; the small ball of warm orange light glowed in my hand, wisps of light circling my body and the pain began slowly disappearing. I was swift and discreet as I could have been; I doubt anyone in this village would be _impressed_ by my magic.

My fingers clamped into a fist over the light and snuffed out the spell when I heard heavy footsteps approaching. Benor dropped a huge wooden tankard of spiced mead in front of me along with a plate of roasted leeks and potatoes and… an _entire_ roasted goat leg. I pursed my lips at the sight of it; I rarely ate meat as it was and it was quite the culture shock to come to Skyrim and see the locals comfortably clear and entire cow between them in a single sitting.

"Next round's on you Ashwood," Benor assured me as he swung onto the bench by my side, stabbing the hunk of beef on his plate with a small iron dagger and taking a hearty swig from his tankard. Nords… you could never pick when one would be cold and unwelcoming, or inexplicably friendly and hospitable.

I began carefully carving at the leeks and potatoes, wondering if it would be rude to not eat the goat leg as well.

"So. Benor," I started, "What is it you do here in town?"

"Oh, y'know, a bit of this a bit of that," he said with his mouth full, then decided to chew and swallow before continuing, "They won't let me be a guard so I'll take odd jobs, anything for now."

I tilted my head, looking up at him thoughtfully. "So a mercenary then?"

"I figure the guards can always use some help," he said as he nodded, "So I keep my eyes open."

I tucked into a little food then, chewing thoughtfully and politely swallowing before I spoke.

"Well if you're looking for work why not go to war?" I asked lightly, "The Imperials, the Stormcloaks, always looking for recruits."

Benor was halfway though a deep drag on his mead before he narrowed his eyes at me slightly, setting the tankard down heavily.

"Well you just explained the problem," he growled with a shake of his head, "Even to you there's no difference between the two sides in this 'civil war'. I'm not interested in war; if I can work as a guard I know I'm doing the right thing by the people here."

I drummed my fingers over the table.

"You seem in earnest…" I mused absently, "Considering these dangerous times I really have to wonder why they wouldn't hire you."

"Hmn. Well." Was all the response I earned. Benor merely sawed at his meal and shoveled a large hunk of beef into his mouth. I delicately prodded at the leeks on my plate, then smirked.

"…Bandit? Hired thug?" I suggested and Benor paused in his carving, pointing at me lazily with the iron dagger.

"For someone who likes keeping her history a secret you sure like prying into other people," he warned and I held back my chuckle. Yes, perhaps I had been a little unfair. And he had just bought me a goat leg which I suppose was a generous move in this country.

"You wanted to know what I was doing here in Morthall…" I offered lightly, thinking through what I should tell him. I pushed a little more food around.

"I'm no native to Skyrim," I started, "I was born in Wayrest, in Highrock. Of course, I was only a child when we were forced to leave so really I came here from the Imperial city in Cyrodil."

Benor nodded, "I heard about that, Wayrest was raided by corsairs…"

He was speaking with his mouth half full again and I tried not to purse my lips. My brother had hated it when I picked on anyone's poor manners and I had to remind myself that an inn in Morthall was not the Blue Palace.

"Thirteen years ago now…" I continued, "My brother and I escaped in the confusion, we were adrift in the Empire since."

Benor gave me a long, possibly pitying look. Eventually we both took silent drinks of mead and he stitched on, "Doesn't quite say what would bring you to a town like this."

"…Curiosity, and we'll say no more."

"For now," he agreed. After another short silence, he began offering a little more history up to me.

"I fell in with the wrong crowd when I was a boy. Not quite bandits, just… enough to get me into trouble one too many times. But then, y'know, you see innocent people start getting hurt… by then fighting was all I knew."

Not the most eloquent man I'd ever met, but the story wasn't unfamiliar.

"I understand," I conceded, "…Wanting to find a way out."

A thick silence fell on us then and I sipped thoughtfully at my mead, as Benor drained the last of his flagon – _by the Eight_ _he drank fast._

The thought blossomed in the back of my mind unexpectedly, like a deathbell blooming in the snow. I can't even be sure how long it had been growing there; I paused in my chewing, tapping the end of my fork on my plate. I glanced sideward at Benor; tall, strong, tough. Could swing an axe taller than I was. I tapped my fork again, narrowing my eyes.

"…Benor… have you ever been to Whiterun?" I asked slowly. He sliced a roast potato in half, paused, and shook his head.

"Whiterun? No. That your next stop?"

I nodded, "I've got a favor to do for the Court Wizard-"

"Ngh, _wizards_," he grunted balefully, "What does he want then, you to harvest a few human hearts for him or-"

"You really have no concept of the magic arts, do you?" I snapped quickly, my ego taking the hit. He only raised his eyebrows at me and I resisted the urge to adjust my hair and make sure it covered my ears.

"Look, it's just a fetch job," I said, leaning forward a little and speaking lower. Not that there was any reason for secrecy, but old habits die hard. "Into some old ruins, grab a stone tablet, get back and get paid. And you know those old ruins are full of loot."

"Oh yeah?" he asked, but I could tell he was intrigued, "If this is so simple what stopped you doing it before?"

"I'm not a six-three Nord with an axe," I said bluntly and he laughed at me, giving me a light and easy thump on the arm. Which meant it was only _slightly_ akin to being whacked with a leg of ham.

"Now you said, any time I needed your steel by my side…" I pressed, and after a pensive moment, he nodded.

"Well, what's life without a little adventure?"


End file.
